No Hope
by whytejigsaw
Summary: So this is my sequel to Always Hope – it's a short-ish multi-chapter fic and combines the observations that John promised at the end of Always Hope with the notion going around on Tumblr to write fics where Molly likes other TV that Glee. Sherlock/Molly new but established relationship. Beta'd by Thinkswithpen & with birthday wishes to the awesome PetraTodd.
1. Chapter 1

It had been three months since the day John found out that Molly and Sherlock were seeing each other. It couldn't really be called dating because they didn't actually go out on dates. Whatever they had, it seemed to be working. John wasn't a jealous man but it had taken him a while to come around to the idea that his flatmate had a girlfriend. _Sherlock_ had a girlfriend. Even the sentence sounded weird. If Sherlock hadn't been so intelligent, John would almost have felt obliged to sit him down for a "little chat". Thankfully, Sherlock's exhibitionist nature stayed within the realm of his work.

Molly was around more often. John had no problem with this. She was fun, she was an excellent baker and she was well able to stand up to Sherlock. Of course, she always had been, in her own quiet way, but it was more overt. You could say that she didn't take any of his shit now. John remembered a time when Sherlock made him get his phone from his own pocket. And idiot that he was, he'd done it. Molly wouldn't put up with that. John had the great fortune to witness the first time he tried it.

They were at Barts and Sherlock had just received the results of a toxicology panel.

"Excellent. Molly, get my phone."

"It's in your pocket," she said.

"I know – get it for me," he looked up at her, smiled his very best smile, and added "please."

"Get it yourself, you lazy sod," she replied, really sweetly, meeting his gaze without a blink.

John watched, very pleased, as Sherlock sheepishly retrieved his own phone.

oOo

It was a Friday evening in September. Molly, John and Sherlock were sharing an Indian curry at Baker St.

"Molly, you've looked at your watch 7 times in the last hour. What is so pressing?" asked Sherlock.

"I want to watch something at 7:30."

"Of course you can, Molly. What station?"

Sherlock glared at John. He preferred to provide background music himself.

"Er, I think I'll just go home actually."

"What? Don't be silly – you can watch whatever you want," said John.

"Well, it's Strictly Come Dancing on BBC1."

John nodded and grabbed the tv remote. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, silently demanding an explanation.

"It's a show where celebrities learn ballroom and Latin dancing with professional partners. They get judged and then the public votes one off every week."

"You mean it's reality television?" Sherlock sounded like he'd been asked to solve an obvious spousal murder by Lestrade.

"Yes, it's brilliant. I love dancing. You should at least understand it, Sherlock."

"Hmm, what's that now? What would Sherlock know about dancing?" asked John.

"Nothing at all. I suppose I can put up with it this once though." Sherlock beckoned for Molly to come and sit by him on the couch. She obliged and immediately found the detective's head in her lap.

And that was how John found himself watching a dancing show with his flatmate and his girlfriend. It was so weird. Molly was busy with the explaining.

"So this is the first show where they introduce all the celebrities and pair them up with their dance partners. Some celebrities allegedly only do it if they get certain professionals. But they all get paid the same, whether they're knocked out in the first week or get to the final. The professionals stop earning when they're knocked out, which is hideously unfair."

It wasn't long before both John and Sherlock, to their mutual disgust, were drawn in.

"Who is this ancient fool presenting with the terrible lines?"

"Do you seriously not know who Bruce Forsyth is? He's a national treasure, mate," said an astonished John.

"Well then he should be in a museum!" retorted Sherlock.

"And look at this poor woman who is his sidekick. Her body language says she is mortified at everything he says but she obviously needs the job and is hanging on in the hope he'll retire soon and she'll be able to take over."

"Oooh, do you really think so, Sherlock?" Molly was suddenly seeing a new appeal to watching her guilty pleasure with Sherlock.

"It's completely obvious."

They watched everyone was partnered up. The final part of the show was a group dance – designed to give the audience an idea of what each individual would be like in the competition.

"Usually, everyone's rubbish at this stage but sometimes we get a hint of greatness to come. I remember a couple of years ago watching Ricky Whittle and thinking – may as well not bother, he'll clearly win. But he didn't! He came second but I think the public didn't warm to him."

"So people actually spend money voting on this nonsense?" said Sherlock.

"Yes, we do," replied Molly through gritted teeth.

"What happens after tonight?" John tactfully asked.

"They have 3 weeks of intensive training before the first live show. No one goes home in the first week but the scores are carried over."

"Therefore, you won't be talking about this again any time soon?" said Sherlock hopefully.

"No. I wonder what else I won't be doing?" replied Molly.

John wondered whether he should begin a blog post entitled "Dance & the Detective".


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wasn't quite sure how it happened, even now. For years, she was just his pathologist, a lesser version of John and then, from nowhere, she was everywhere, pervading his life and his mind and even his bed. They taken it slowly, which gave them both time to become accustomed to each other. But from the start, they regularly slept in the same bed. He found sleeping easier with her there. They weren't cuddly sleepers but just knowing she was there made him calmer. The extra sleep had not done any harm to his health. The baking, on the other hand, continued to expose a previously unknown Holmes propensity for sugar. Of course, Mycroft had that in spades but Sherlock had always presumed it was a singular mutation. If he wasn't careful, he would have to start exercising.

One Saturday evening, a few weeks later, Molly and Sherlock were at her place. She had as usual forced food on him: dinner and chocolate brownies. Having had a couple of glasses of wine, Molly had let her inhibitions down. Sherlock was stretched out along the sofa. Molly decided to lie down on top of him.

"Oof…hello," she said, with a slight giggle.

"You could have just asked me to move," said Sherlock, comfortably putting his arms around her.

"I didn't want you to move, silly."

Molly leaned in for a kiss. She tasted of chocolate and red wine – a pleasant combination.

"You taste good," he commented.

"We taste good together."

While their lips moved together, Sherlock's mind was processing. No doubt various chemicals, including the glass of wine he'd consumed, were at work here. That chocolate was an aphrodisiac was obviously rubbish but he couldn't deny the libidinous effect that wine had on both of them. With newly acquired grace, Sherlock rolled Molly and ended up on top of her. She squeaked with pleasure at the sudden exertion of his physical dominance. Her hands caressed his back and landed on his bum with a gentle squeeze. Might not even bother with the bedroom, Sherlock mused to himself as he peppered Molly's neck with kisses, each one eliciting a different delighted noise. She relaxed her legs, one on the ground for purchase, and Sherlock settled in between them, kissing down her neck towards her cleavage. How could he have ever thought her breasts were insufficient? Through her clothes, he could feel her nipples harden. He loved that the process of arousal was so reciprocal, the manifestation of her desire brought on similar reactions in him. Molly's hand cradled his head, fingers in his hair.

"Oh!" she suddenly exclaimed.

Sherlock lifted his head, his voice was thick with longing:

"You usually need longer – are we ready to move on to the next stage?"

But Molly was talking about something else entirely.

"No, get up off me."

"What's wrong?"

"It's time for Strictly! I don't want to miss it."

It took Sherlock a second to remember what she was talking about – he'd deleted most of the information learned that evening three weeks ago.

"Are you joking? I was just going to take great pleasure in removing your clothes…"

"Later," said Molly. Her voice was already distracted as she fumbled with the remote control and found the right channel. She sat back down beside him and manhandled his arm around her. Glancing at him, she noticed a famously Sherlockian pout in progress.

"Oh, I'm sorry, darling…I'll make it up to you later. I promise."

She kissed him on the cheek and focussed on the show just starting.

Sherlock and Molly watched in silence for a few minutes.

"So they all do a cha-cha-cha or a waltz?" he asked, finally giving into his curiosity.

"Yes, in the first week. And then they start to mix it up. I'd really like it if they always only did 2 dances each week, so we could really compare but I guess the viewers want more variety."

"Who is this man? That's the worst cha-cha I've ever seen!"

"Seen a lot of it, have you?" enquired Molly, raising an eyebrow.

"Some."

"Is this more of your mother's wilful nature? Does Mycroft know how to dance too?"

"Of course he does. He's practically the queen of ballroom dance. Got in a strop when he was younger because he wasn't allowed dance the girls' part."

"Wait. Mycroft's gay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighed theatrically and in an uncanny impression of his brother said "Well of course, darling!"

"You're very good at impersonating him."

"Everyone can impersonate their siblings."

"Oh, right. I wouldn't know that…."

Sherlock felt a pang of empathy for his Molly, who apparently desperately wanted siblings when he could barely tolerate his.

"You can have my brother…."

"Actually, I think he already adopted me because he likes my baking."

"Everyone likes your baking."

"I know, now shut up," said Molly, patting his stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later, Molly received a text demand from Sherlock. This was not unusual.

_Come over after work._

_John going out._

_SH_

Why he persisted in initialling his texts was a mystery to Molly.

_Ok. We have to watch ITT though._

_What the hell is ITT?_

_SH_

_You'll find out later._

Molly arrived shortly after six. Mrs Hudson opened the door.

"Oh hello, Molly dear. How are you?"

"Good. How's that hip?"

"Terrible as usual. Think I might have to get it replaced. My dancing days are over."

"Well, ask for Dr Phillips at Barts if you are getting it done. She's super," advised Molly, as she headed upstairs.

She pushed the door to 221B open. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?" she called out, walking in.

Suddenly an arm snaked around her stomach and pulled her backwards.

"Oooh," she gasped.

Sherlock turned her around in his arms and kissed her soundly. She responded enthusiastically. He loosened his grip and pulled her coat and handbag off in one move.

"I've missed you," he half-whispered into her hair.

"If you'd really missed me, you'd have a dinner ready…" she teased, stroking his cheek.

"John will be gone for a few hours. We are all alone."

Sherlock tugged on her hand and marched towards his bedroom.

"Oh no, Sherlock, we don't have time for that."

He looked around, dismayed and confused.

"Did you not hear me say John will be out for hours? We've lots of time and I intend to use it appropriately."

"Well, that's lovely and all, but…" she paused, not quite believing she was turning him down so she could watch TV.

"What?"

"I just want to watch one little 30 minute program and then I'm all yours."

"You're already all mine… what fresh hell are you subjecting me to now?"

"It Takes Two. It's the daily update on Strictly."

"Daily? You mean it's not enough that it's on both weekend days? Molly, this is madness…it's taking over your life."

"Oh, and you'd prefer you took over my life?!"

Her voice had a dangerous edge that Sherlock had learned not to like. Deciding to let her win, he threw the remote control at her and huffed down into the armchair. He could wait half an hour. Maybe.

This episode seemed to be all about what was going on in the training room. They were getting ready for Halloween and lots of people seemed to be dancing the tango. Sherlock decided to run a little experiment.

"Molly?"

"Shush, not now…"

"Do you know how to tango?"

"Sort of…why?" she looked over at him.

"I may have downplayed my dancing skills. Why don't I take you dancing some evening, instead of just watching other people doing it?"

"Really?" Molly's voice went up at least an octave as she draped herself across his knee.

Sherlock smiled as he put his arms around her and leaned in to kiss her neck. Molly twisted her head back around so she could see the television but submitted to his ministrations. He ran his hand up her leg and rested it on her thigh with a gentle squeeze. Now that they were in a relationship (still felt very odd to admit that), Molly wore a lot more skirts. He was not complaining, apart from the delayed by television sex he was planning. Molly rearranged herself so she sat on Sherlock like a chair. It would be easier for Sherlock to continue his attentions and he was highly gratified after only a couple of minutes to hear her say

"Maybe I could skip the rest of this episode…"

The television was off and Molly found herself pinned under Sherlock on the floor within seconds.

"I'm not doing it on the floor."

"I'm not risking you changing your mind," he quipped.

oOOo

After the very enjoyable evening alone mid-week, Molly found herself completely alone by the weekend. Sherlock and John had got a case, which sent them down to Plymouth. She found herself thinking about what Sherlock had said about Mycroft and decided it was time to get to know him a little better. He favoured email, so this was her medium.

Dear Mycroft,

Sherlock has mentioned a few times that you like dancing. I was wondering if you were at all interested in coming over to my place on Saturday night to watch Strictly?

Regards,

Molly

A response came quite quickly.

Dear Molly,

Do you think there might be baked goods involved?

I can bring popcorn and cocktails.

Regards,

Mycroft

PS: I take it Sherlock is away.

Dear Mycroft,

I'm already planning what to bake.

See you on Saturday.

M.

When Mycroft arrived for an evening alone with his brother's girlfriend (still a hilarious concept), he wasn't quite sure what to expect. It turned out she had excelled herself on the cake front. Ginger cake, apple tart and pumpkin pie adorned the table. Molly was wearing a witch's hat too. For his part, Mycroft had forgone his usual suited attire in favour of an incredibly camp "Frankie says Relax" t-shirt, which looked like it dated from the mid-80s and jeans with cowboy boots. Molly stared unashamedly.

"Well," she said, like it was a whole sentence in its own right.

"Sherlock said you were gay, I didn't realise he meant quite that gay! It does lead me to wonder what he might wear if he ever got out of suits…."

"Never happens. Last time I saw Sherlock without a suit on was, oh, that time he wore a sheet to Buckingham Palace. But in non-suit clothes, hmm, he must have been a teenager." Mycroft gave an involuntary shudder at the memory.

"Now, I've brought the ingredients for a number of cocktails, all Halloween themed."

"Excellent," said Molly. "I'll go get glasses."

Molly and Mycroft soon found that they had plenty to talk about, and almost none of it was Sherlock. Obviously, they both liked dancing and Strictly. Molly decided she was well on the way to having a gay best friend.

Long after Strictly had ended, Mycroft was still there. They were drinking green cocktails and singing karaoke when Sherlock let himself in with the key Molly had just recently given him.

Sherlock had entered the main room quietly and neither occupant had yet noticed his appearance.

It was a unique tableau. His brother: dressed like the proud gay man he was, drinking a cocktail. His girlfriend: looking nothing like her usual self as she performed "Girls just wanna have fun" in front of the television. Her singing voice was passable, though hoarsened by alcohol. Sherlock found he had no words. Actually properly dumbfounded by this scene, entirely of his own unintentional making.

"Ahem," he ventured.

Molly looked around and grinned a massive, drunken grin at him.

"Sherlock! You're back."

"Careful, Molly, he'll complain about you stating the obvious now," said Mycroft from the couch, conducting with his glass.

Sherlock shot a most unfraternal glare at him. Mycroft reckoned a level 5.

Molly ran up to Sherlock and leapt into his arms.

"Oh you're home. I missed you."

She kissed both his cheeks, which were turning an attractive shade of red. Normally, Sherlock would be only delighted to have his Molly wrap her legs around his waist but he wasn't about to enjoy this with family members present. He gently put her back down on the ground.

"I can see I should have called before coming over."

"You don't have to call…" Molly dismissed him with a wave. "Now, very important, do you want a zombie cocktail?"

"What do you think?" said Sherlock, a touch of his former icy demeanour creeping in.

Mycroft stood up, swaying just a little.

"I think it's time for me to go home, Molly dear. It is quite late."

"Oh no! You were going to sing next."

"Perhaps next time."

"You two are individually great fun and together not even a little bit," said Molly with the sagacity of mild inebriation.

Mycroft said awkward goodbyes to both and left them to it.

"All alone at last," said Molly.

"Yes, I'm going to put you to bed."

"Excellent," said Molly, mishearing his tone.

As he tucked his drunk girlfriend into bed, he wondered when this Strictly program would end, and if there was anything he could do hasten it. With that in mind, he went home to do some research.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's research was not exactly promising. The show was due to run for another 8 weeks. 8 weeks of listening to Molly talk about dancing, celebrities and not paying proper attention to him. It wasn't fair. And just when he was getting used to having her….around all the time. Surely there was a way around this – he could distract her somehow. He sighed loudly.

"What's wrong with you?" asked John. Sherlock had forgotten he was there.

"It's this stupid television program – Molly's obsessed with it."

"And she's not fawning over you? Are you jealous of TV?"

"No, of course not. But since it took some effort to admit to….wanting a girlfriend…I would quite like to have her."

"It's mad. You're like a soccer widow. Spurned for salsa. Flung away in favour of the foxtrot. Passed over for the Paso."

"Oh shut up!"

"Listen to me, I'm older and wiser. There's no reason why you can't play all this dancing nonsense to your advantage. I'm willing to bet you can dance."

Stony-faced silence was the response.

"I'll talk that as a yes. You, em, move too gracefully not to have had lessons."

"John. Take that tone out of your voice. You don't sound gay because you noticed I've had dance lessons. Which were a long time ago, I might add."

"Right, well moving on. I'm sure you remember how to dance. Take Molly out, dance with her. Women love men who can dance! I'm sure it will be to your benefit…"

"What do you mean?"

John gave him a significant look.

"Be-ne-fit," he repeated slowly.

"I see," said Sherlock finally. He pulled the laptop towards him.

"Better get planning then."

oOOo

The following Thursday, Molly was at work, when she received a package.

"Package for Dr Hooper?" said a grimy looking courier type as he walked into the morgue.

"Oh, that's me. I didn't order anything?"

"Not my problem, love. Just sign there."

Molly found herself holding a large, long box. The courier left her alone. A cream coloured stiff paper envelope was attached to the top of the box. Flipping it over, she saw the envelope was sealed with wax. A coat of arms was stamped into it, but she was useless with heraldry. If it wasn't the Queen's arms on the side of a cereal box, she hadn't a clue. Molly opened the envelope and slid out a single postcard sized note. Written in calligraphy was the following:

_Dr Hooper is kindly requested to attend the Dorchester Hotel's ballroom this Friday at 19:30. She should please wear the outfit in the box._

Like any true lady, she ripped the box open in her enthusiasm. Within folds of tissue paper sat what could only be called a gown. She lifted it out and held it up. It was a powder blue dress, with tiny sparkles threaded through. A perfect ballroom dance dress. Oh but what if it didn't fit her? And then she laughed at her thought. This whole thing was clearly some plot of Sherlock's. The dress would fit her like a glove. He probably took her measurements while she slept; or worse, could just work them out from a glance. Also in the box were shoes to match the dress and a wrap. The chances of doing any proper work for the rest of the week had just gone out the window.

Naturally he was not answering his phone or responding to texts: obviously part of the plan. She'd just have to play along.

Molly left work early on Friday to go home and get ready. She did her hair up and wore her grandmother's pearl earrings and necklace. The dress could have been made for her, which of course it was. Molly felt like a Disney princess. She stepped into a cab – no Tube for her tonight – and directed the cabbie to take her to the Dorchester.

When she arrived, a liveried doorman held open the glass doors for her.

"Dr Hooper?" he enquired.

"Oh, yes?" Molly was taken aback.

"The ballroom is just down to your right."

"Thank you."

Molly approached the ballroom doors with some trepidation. What if she had misread this whole thing and it was some awful joke? Well, too late to turn back now. She opened the door and walked inside. The room was lit very low and was completely empty. A single table with chairs was ahead on the right. There was no band on the stage. Curious.

"May I take your wrap, Molly?" said Sherlock, appearing from behind.

She turned around to face him. He was dressed in tails. They mutually took each other's breath away.

"What have you done?" she breathed softly.

"I hope I have your attention now."

"Every bit of it. What have you planned?"

"Dancing, of course. It's your current obsession, yes?"

"Well, yes."

"Then let's dance."

"Sherlock, there's no music."

"Ah, yes, there will be." He clicked his fingers and a waltz began to play.

"Where's the music coming from?"

"A sound system," said Sherlock, slightly scornfully. "I don't think we need a band to witness this – I much prefer us to be entirely alone."

Sherlock stepped forward to hold her for the waltz.

"Hang on…we're here, all alone, to dance?"

"Do you not like this plan?" He suddenly looked unsure, and unconsciously bit his lower lip, a trait he had picked up from Molly.

"I love this plan. I love the bag, love the shoes, love everything. Especially you."

Sherlock had the sense she was quoting something but he had no idea what, so he just started to dance with her.

The dress was perfect on her – as he knew it would be. And she was a passable dancer. She hadn't endured 3 years of lessons like he had but she allowed herself to be led.

"Sherlock, how did you get access to the Dorchester's ballroom on a Friday night?"

"I once solved a case for them. Their head butler was stealing items from high profile guests. They owed me a favour. We don't just have the ballroom either."

Molly arched an eyebrow.

"We have a suite upstairs too."

"Do we?" squeaked Molly. "But I don't have anything with me."

"Are you underestimating me? You have an overnight bag upstairs."

Molly broke from hold to throw her arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him.

"This is an amazing idea. I knew putting in all that time getting you to notice me and then training you up would be worthwhile in the end."

"Training me up?" he asked.

"Well, you did say girlfriends weren't your area. There was a lot of carefully planned mooning about over you before you even realised I was a woman, and not just a pathologist."

The waltz ended and Sherlock twirled her out and pulled her tight against him.

"I always knew you were a woman," he whispered into her hair, then in a louder voice; "now not all the dances will be waltzes, you don't have the right outfit for every single one but you'll just have to make do. Follow my lead."

A tango began to play.

"This is really all about you being in charge, isn't it, Sherlock," teased Molly.

"Of course. And just wait til I get you upstairs later," he said, as he dipped her.

After two hours of dancing, Molly had had enough.

"Take me to bed, Sherlock," she commanded.

"As you wish."

Taking her by the hand, he led her upstairs to a suite larger than either of their homes. The furniture looked antique but the upholstery and soft furnishing were modern. There was a four poster bed. Looking around, Molly noticed there was no television.

"Sherlock, did you ask them to remove the telly?" she smiled.

"I did. I didn't want you to be distracted."

"You need not have bothered. I find my mind is on a single track tonight. It involves getting you naked in that bed."

"Excellent. Perhaps great minds do think alike after all."

Molly silenced him with a kiss. She turned around.

"Unzip my dress. I'm not leaving this on the floor."

"You hardly need my help. You put it on alone."

"Oh shush, you're ruining it!"

He acquiesced.

Without the dress, Molly had very little on and she shivered a little, partly from the cold and partly with excitement.

"I prefer you without the dress," said Sherlock, a smile twitched around his lips.

Molly walked over to the bed and rested one foot on it, rolled down her hold-ups, one by one. Sherlock watched her with almost detached interest. He'd seen women do this in films. He'd never seen the point before. He got it now. She sat down on bed and leaned back on her elbows.

"Your turn. Take it all off."

He didn't need to be told twice. He shrugged off his jacket.

"No, slowly," interrupted Molly.

Well! This was getting very interesting. Apart from The Woman, no one had ever used that tone of voice on him. He slowly undid the buttons on his shirt and peeled it off. Molly exhaled sharply, as if she suddenly realised she was holding her breath. It was faintly ridiculous – she'd seen him naked before. But it never got old. That she was allowed this access to him – to see him vulnerable. Molly ran her own hand over her breasts and down between her legs.

"I think that's my job, Molly."

"Well, you're taking your time over there. I just thought I'd get started."

"You told me to go slowly."

"Yes, but I didn't mean glacier slow!"

Finally finished undressing, Sherlock came and kneeled before her. Grabbing the backs of her knees, he dragged her forward to the edge of the bed. She tried to lean forward and kiss him but he pushed back down on the bed. His hand trailed over her breast bone, down past the soft part of her stomach and came to rest on the tender part immediately above her pubic hair. She inhaled and closed her eyes. Nothing happened.

"What are you waiting for?"

"I'm just savouring the moment. I have your undivided attention for the first time in weeks."

"And you have it until 7pm tomorrow night. Get on with it!"

Molly could be quite the little madam when it came to delayed pleasure. Sherlock did as he was told and ran one long finger along her labia. She was already aroused – he never could quite turn off the observation track of his brain. She wriggled beneath his hand. He bent to use his tongue. All previous evidence suggested it was the most efficient way of achieving her climax. He barely managed a single lick before Molly pulled his hair.

"Ouch," he said.

Molly looked him straight in the eye. For once, not afraid of his gaze, not blushing.

"I want you…"

"Thank god," exclaimed Sherlock, "my knees are killing me!"

Molly giggled as he pulled himself up and hovered over her.

"Are you ready?" he asked softly.

She responded by tightening her legs around his waist, positioning herself just so.

No longer willing or able to resist, he plunged into her. She moaned as she adjusted to the always thrilling feeling of having Sherlock inside her and they began to move together. He fought down the urge to ram her into the mattress. He wondered if all recently deflowered people were this voracious – probably. Molly trembled beneath him, already at the point of climax. He let himself go and they came almost at the same moment, Molly crying out his name as he bit her shoulder to stifle his own groans. He sagged down on top over her and made to move. She stilled him with her hand.

"No stay for a minute. I love the feeling of you on top of me. You're not that heavy."

She kissed him then – actually for the first time since they made it to bed.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening."

"I hope you're not thinking of going asleep yet. There's a very large bath through that door, and I'd like to experiment with it."

"Hmm, I like this plan."

"By the way," he added, "you need to be ready at 5pm tomorrow evening."

"For what?" asked Molly.

"We're going to watch Strictly live."

The look on Molly's face was worth every moment of planning, and the favour he now owed Mycroft. It might even be worth the torture of having to watch Strictly live himself. She certainly looked very grateful…perhaps there were benefits to reality television after all, he thought, as he watched his girlfriend's pert little bottom sway towards the bathroom. He really was beyond all hope of recovery now.


End file.
